Chapter 558: The Tale Spinner of Cordu

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not—there’s just no time for that.

My parents can’t support me, my education isn’t impressive, and here I am alone in the city, searching for a future.

I’ve tried for countless jobs, but not a single one took me. Maybe no one likes a guy who struggles to talk, isn’t much for conversation and doesn’t really stand out.

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There was a time I went three whole days eating just two pieces of bread. Hunger tormented me every night, but at least I’d paid the rent for another month, so I could keep living in that dark basement without facing the bitter cold of winter outside.

At last, I found a job—night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was colder than I ever imagined. The corridor wall lamps weren’t lit, everything steeped in shadow, and the only light came from slivers spilling out of nearby rooms, just enough to see my feet.

The place reeked. Every so often, a corpse would be wheeled in sealed in a body bag. Together, we’d lift it into the cold storage.

Not a good job, really, but at least it paid for bread. Plus, the long nights gave me time to study. No one wanted to come near the morgue unless there was a body to deliver or pick up for cremation. Of course, I didn’t have enough money to buy books yet, and saving any amount seemed like a distant dream.

I owe this job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t even have this chance.

I dreamed of someday getting the day shift. Right now, I sleep at sunrise and rise with the night. My body’s starting to wear down, and sometimes I get these stabbing headaches.

One day, the porters brought in a new corpse.

I overheard someone say it was my former coworker—the one who’d quit so suddenly.

My curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I slid open his drawer and quietly unzipped the bag.

He was an old man, face mottled blue and white, deeply wrinkled. Under the dim light, he looked… terrifying.

There wasn’t much hair left on his head—most of it was white. All his clothes were gone, not a scrap left to cover him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, a bluish-black pattern I couldn’t quite make out—the lighting was just too bad.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing special happened.

Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if my life goes on like this, will I end up just like him…?

I told him, “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the crematorium myself. I’ll make sure your ashes are buried at the nearest free cemetery, so those in charge don’t just throw you into some river or wasteland to save trouble.”

That meant losing a morning’s sleep, but it was fine—Sunday was coming up. I could catch up then.

After saying my piece, I zipped the bag and slid him back into the drawer.

The room felt even darker than before…

After that night, whenever I slept, I always dreamed of thick fog.

I had a feeling something was coming—something I couldn’t even call human might show up for me. No one believed me, though. They thought my mind was slipping, said working and living in a place like that had driven me insane—I needed to see a doctor.

A male customer sitting at the bar eyed the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped:

“So, what happened next?”

He looked to be in his thirties, wore a brown tweed coat and pale yellow trousers, hair slicked flat. A battered dark bowler sat near his hand.

He looked utterly ordinary, just like most folks in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome nor ugly, not the sort anyone would remember.

The storyteller, in his eyes, was an eighteen or nineteen-year-old young man—tall, long-limbed, also with black short hair and pale blue eyes. But his features were striking and sharp, the kind that caught your attention right away.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed:

“So, what happened next?”

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“Well, I quit, moved back to the countryside, and now I’m here weaving tall tales with you.”

A sly grin crept over his face as he spoke, eyes twinkling with mischief.

The man at the bar froze for a moment:

“Wait, are you saying that story was made up?”

A burst of laughter erupted from those around the bar.

As the laughter faded, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the flustered customer and said:

“Stranger, you actually fell for Lumian’s stories? He changes them up every day! Yesterday, he claimed to be a poor fellow whose fiancée dumped him. Today, he’s a morgue watchman!”

“Yeah! One day it’s thirty years on the east side of the Serrence, next day on the right side—he never stops with the nonsense!” another tavern regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village. Each wore either black, gray or brown short jackets.

Lumian, the black-haired young man, leaned on the counter and slowly stood up, eyes shining with a grin:

“You know it’s not my story—I just borrow from my sister. She’s always been the storyteller, even writes for the ‘Weekly Novel Magazine’.”

He turned and flashed a bright smile at the outsider, hands open wide:

“Guess that means she’s good at what she does.

Sorry for the confusion.”

The man in the brown tweed, still perfectly calm, stood up and responded with a smile:

“Interesting story.”

“How should I address you?”

“Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself before asking for someone’s name?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The outsider nodded:

“My name is Ryan Coste.

And these are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He gestured to a man and a woman sitting nearby.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight. His blond hair was powdered, his deep blue eyes darker than any lake, and his clothes—white vest, blue fitted coat, black trousers—showed careful attention to style.

His expression was cold, barely glancing at the local farmers and herders.

The woman seemed younger than the two men. Her long ash-gray hair was woven into an elaborate bun and covered with a white veil, worn like a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair—gray and lively. She watched Lumian with an open, amused smile, clearly entertained by the scene.

In the gaslight’s glow, Leah’s shapely nose and elegant lips stood out. In a backwater village like Cordu, she was nothing short of stunning.

She wore a white cashmere dress with no pleats, a cream short jacket, and a pair of high Masil boots. Silver bells were tied to her veil and boots, so she jingled with every step, drawing every man’s eyes when she entered the tavern.

To the locals, this was an outfit you’d only expect in a city like Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the capital itself.

Lumian nodded to the three outsiders:

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What? Something wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste answered for Leah:

“It’s a name that strikes fear in people. I almost lost my composure just now.”

Seeing confusion on all the farmers and herders’ faces, he explained further:

“Anyone who’s spent time among sailors or merchants knows the saying about the Five Seas:

Rather face the pirate admirals and kings than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.

That Frank Lee shares your surname.”

“Is he really so dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I can’t say, but any legend that sticks around like that must be rooted in something real.”

He dropped the topic and looked back to Lumian:

“Thank you for the story. It’s worth a drink. What would you like?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian answered promptly, dropping back into his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe…? You do know that stuff can be dangerous? Wormwood’s been known to mess with your mind—bring hallucinations and worse.”

“Never thought Trier’s fashions would make it all the way here,” Leah added, smiling.

Lumian nodded, “Oh, so even Trier folk drink Absinthe…

For us, life’s already hard enough—it can’t hurt to dull things a little more. A drink that helps you relax, that’s more than enough.”

“Fair enough.” Ryan sat back down and signaled to the bartender. “One Absinthe for him, and I’ll take a Fiery Heart.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why am I not getting an Absinthe too? I’m the one who exposed him! I could tell these outsiders every detail about this rascal!” The skinny, middle-aged man who’d outed Lumian grumbled, “You strangers must still be wondering if his story was true!”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back loudly.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian piped up again:

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself? That way, I’d get another Absinthe!”

“Because nobody’s sure whether to believe you,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story is about the Boy Who Cried Wolf—everyone knows a liar’s words are good for nothing.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged and watched the bartender slide a faint green drink his way.

Ryan looked to him for approval:

“Is it all right?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover it,” Lumian replied cheerfully.

“Then another Absinthe, please.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre immediately beamed with delight:

“Generous strangers, beware—this kid is the biggest prankster in the village. Best to keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here. He’s never left since. Before that, he was only thirteen. How could he have worked at the hospital morgue? The nearest hospital’s down in Daliege—that’s a whole afternoon’s walk.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked, sharp as ever.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, setting her silver bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname—Lee—and even his first name, Lumian, is one she gave him.”

“I can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said, taking a sip of Absinthe with an easy smile.

It seemed he didn’t feel any shame or embarrassment at having his past dragged into the open.